


when the ritual begins

by shineyma



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Magic, Post - Red Wedding, Revenge, The Old Gods (ASoIaF)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:02:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24082528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: And faintly, as though from a great distance, she heard Old Nan’s voice: You can’t call down the gods for simple matters. Your cause must be just, child—you’ll need to plead your case before they listen. And woe betide who calls falsely for a curse.We have nothing to fear, Sansa told herself. Our cause is more than just.
Relationships: Sansa Stark & Starks
Comments: 28
Kudos: 181





	when the ritual begins

**Author's Note:**

> Week NINETEEN! And I'm still in the Game of Thrones place - or really the Sansa Stark place, I should say. I JUST WANT HER TO HAVE HUGS AND VENGEANCE, OKAY. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review! <3

There was no peace for Sansa in the Red Keep.

She sought the godswood to escape, but even that was paltry comfort. She knew too well that the safety it offered was an illusion—that her tormentors circled just outside, held back only by some pretense of respect for the gods. And as for the gods themselves, she doubted they were to be found anywhere in the South, let alone the cursed prison she found herself in.

Everywhere she looked, she was surrounded by enemies.

Nights were no better than the days. Lord Tyrion kept his distance ( _for now_ , a dark terror whispered), but her sleep was restless and her dreams often horrible. Frequently she dreamed of her parents, her siblings, or her home: all were lost to her now, turning even the rare pleasant dream bittersweet and painful.

And then one night—

One night she dreamed she stood before the heart tree in the godswood at Winterfell. It was dark, the clearing lit only by the light of the full moon, and though snow was heavy on the ground, the sky was clear.

And her siblings were around her.

From Jon Snow to baby Rickon, they circled the clearing. They didn’t match her memories—Jon was gaunt, Robb wore a beard, Arya’s hair was cut short, Bran and Rickon were older than she’d ever seen them—but her heart knew them nonetheless.

They looked just as relieved, just as pained, to see each other as she was to see them, yet none of them moved and none of them spoke. They didn’t move to embrace, to weep, to mourn. They simply stood in silence, drinking each other in.

They were together, and they were home.

After a time, Jon and Robb looked at each other. Jon inclined his head, and Robb spoke.

“I lost my wife,” he said, loud in the dream’s silence, “and our unborn babe with her. My allies turned against me and plotted with my enemies. My cause has been betrayed, my army scattered. I watched my mother die.” All the rest of them—even Jon—drew in sharp breaths. Still, they held their silence. “I need vengeance.”

There was a ritual cadence to his voice, turning simple words into a proclamation. It brought to mind nights spent in the nursery, listening to Old Nan’s stories.

Old Nan would have warned against this, but Old Nan was dead, too. A cold Northern fury stole through Sansa’s veins, turning her very blood to ice.

_I am no Southron bird_ , she thought, _to balk at calling on the gods of my fathers. They are of the North, and so am I._

When Robb’s eyes turned to her, she knew precisely what to say.

“I lost my direwolf,” she said, invoking her own private loss. “I have been beaten—” a frisson of tension swept through her siblings—“and tormented. I was married against my will to a member of the family that hunts mine. I watched my father die.” She exhaled slowly, watching her breath cloud in the cold of the night. “I demand vengeance.”

She looked to Arya—her little sister, so long missing. As lost to her as the others, though her fate was far less certain.

“I lost my name,” Arya said. “I’ve been hunted and captured, twice over. My friends have been murdered and my sword stolen.” Her voice was dark and her eyes darker still. “I watched my world end. I crave vengeance.”

A breeze moved through the clearing, stirring their hair and clothes. Something wet dripped down Sansa’s face; when she touched it, pain sparked in her cheek and her fingers came away bloody. Somehow she knew that the wound caused by Ser Meryn’s gauntlet so many moons ago had split back open.

There was a power building in their circle, there in the clearing before the heart tree. And power demanded blood.

Bran spoke next.

“I lost my legs,” he said. “My trust was repaid with betrayal and death. My path is treacherous, my future unclear.” He swallowed. “I watched my people put to the sword. I seek vengeance.”

For such a little boy, his face was remarkably old as he looked to Rickon.

“I lost my home,” Rickon said, voice high and clear. “Everyone left me.” Sansa’s heart broke; Robb closed his eyes. “I don’t know what to do.” His face scrunched up as though he might cry, but after a moment, it smoothed back out. “I watched Winterfell burn. I want vengeance.”

_Does he remember the stories?_ Sansa wondered. _Was he old enough?_

Had Old Nan had the chance, before she died with the rest of their household, to teach him this? Or was he only following their example? Or—no. She’d forgotten.

_It’s only a dream_ , she reminded herself. _Robb, Arya, Bran, and Rickon are all dead. He knows because I do._

But as the power built further, it all felt so real.

As one, they turned to Jon.

“I surrendered my place,” he said. “I am the shield that guards the realms of men. I am of the Night’s Watch, and the Night’s Watch takes no part.” He looked around their circle, slow and ponderous. “But my brothers are dead and my sisters lost to me. I dream of vengeance.”

Another breeze swept the clearing—a stronger one this time, in truth more a gust than a breeze. It rocked Sansa back on her heels. A strange hum was moving through her, as though their calls for vengeance reverberated in her very bones.

And faintly, as though from a great distance, she heard Old Nan’s voice: _You can’t call down the gods for simple matters. Your cause must be just, child—you’ll need to plead your case before they listen. And woe betide who calls falsely for a curse._

_We have nothing to fear_ , Sansa told herself. _Our cause is more than just._

“I call upon the old gods of the forest,” Robb said, “of the winter and the wolf. For eight thousand years, our family has kept faith with you. Now we are hunted.”

“Stark blood has been spilled,” Sansa picked up the call. “From the oldest—our lord Father—to the youngest—our heir’s heir, yet unborn. We are murdered.”

“We are betrayed,” Arya said, and Sansa had never heard so much hate in her voice.

“We are scattered,” Bran said.

“We are lost,” Rickon finished.

Around them, the trees rustled. Despite all the snow on the ground, none of their branches were bare.

“The lone wolf dies,” Jon began.

“But the pack survives,” they said as one.

Wind whirled around the clearing, stinging at their faces. Sansa closed her eyes and let it chill her—it was freezing, but _clean_ , nothing like the stink of King’s Landing. It was winter. It was home.

When she opened her eyes, she realized that blood had begun to seep down Robb’s front. No wound was visible, but the stain on the loose tunic he wore was quickly growing.

“I call upon the old gods,” he said again. “We are owed vengeance. Deliver it to us. Punish the Boltons.”

The back of Sansa’s dress was wet. Like the long-healed wound on her cheek, the lashes on her back had reopened. It hurt twice as much as the getting of them had, but she didn’t falter. “The Boltons and the Lannisters.”

“The Boltons, the Lannisters, and the Freys,” Arya said.

The wind was stronger now.

“The Lannisters, the Freys, and the Greyjoys,” Bran said.

“The Freys and the Greyjoys,” Rickon said.

“The Greyjoys,” Jon said.

“Old gods,” Robb said, “hear our call. Avenge us.”

“Avenge our father,” Sansa said.

The wind picked up further as Arya took her turn.

“Our mother—”

Snow whirled around their feet.

“Our brothers—”

The trees shook.

“Our sisters—”

Leaves spun around them.

“Our home.”

All at once, the wind stopped. Everything was still.

“Avenge us,” they said together, and with a great crack of thunder, lightning struck the heart tree. It knocked them all off their feet—

_—and Robb woke in his hidden camp, stitched wounds aching. He could still feel the power of his call, could feel the weight of the old gods’ regard upon him._

_They had listened, and he knew his cause was just. If they had listened, they would grant the curse the Starks had called for._

_For the first time since the wedding (since he lost his wife, his babe, and his mother all in one night), he smiled—_

_—and Arya woke somewhere in the Riverlands, struggling to breathe._

_She was still chilled from the wind and the snow of the godswood, and despite the impossibility, she dared to believe her dream had been real. Robb, Bran, and Rickon were dead, and the dead couldn’t call down curses, but…_

_But the gods had listened. She knew they had._

_She was smiling as she sat up. Soon, her list would be shorter—_

_—and Bran woke beyond the Wall, knowing in his heart that this dream was as true as all his others, that their cause was righteous and the gods would grant their curse—_

_—and Rickon woke on Skagos, curled up with Shaggydog, and shrugged away another dream of the family who’d left him—_

_—and Jon woke at the Wall, wondering whether Old Nan’s stories of curses might be as true as her stories of White Walkers had proven to be—_

—and Sansa woke in her bed in the Red Keep, ears ringing.

No. Not her ears.

The _bells_.

She slipped out of bed and padded to the door, heart pounding. She didn’t dare open it—didn’t dare draw the attention of the guards when she was in this state—but she pressed her ear against it and listened hard.

In the distance, someone was screaming. Her breath caught.

And still, the bells tolled.

“They ring the bells,” she whispered to the memory of her siblings, “for the death of a king.”

Smiling, she retreated to the wardrobe. There was no telling what form their impossibly summoned vengeance had taken, but Sansa thought she should be fully and warmly dressed before she went to meet it.

After all, winter had come.


End file.
